Mickey Fonsard felt only love for the woman by her side. Her crankiness, she knew, was merely the way she chose to express her frustration at their situation. There was no better friend on earth than Yvette. Mickey smiled and embraced her tenderly. “He will come, Yvette. He will come. He will head to the château, not Paris. Daniel is a powerful man in Washington,” she said proudly.
“And that is going to do us a lot of good here…. Chérie, you are dreaming. No one can help us but ourselves and other loyal Frenchmen. Forget Daniel,” she said wearily.
“No. You must believe with me, Yvette. You must. In any case,” Mickey continued in a firm whisper, holding Yvette’s reluctant gaze, “you pledged to help me get Philippe to America, and part of that pledge is believing that Daniel will come.”
Yvette let out a frustrated sigh. “Old friend, I want to believe, but this is my concern. If he does manage to get here, his chances are not what ours are. What will we do about Philippe if something happens to Daniel?”
Mickey had thought of nothing else over the past three days. She was as worried as Yvette but by sheer will had managed to hide her fear. “Then we will head south and try to cross into Spain.”
Mickey’s heart beat furiously in anticipation as she awaited her friend’s response to her proposal. Yvette’s next words were a surprise.
“You should have told him your intentions when we started out. It will be such a shock.” Both women looked over at the sleeping young man.
Yvette explained herself to Mickey before she could protest. “I know, I know. In your heart you were not sure Daniel would come. Why stir things up, eh? You are so much a mother, chérie. It matters not if that young man is of your flesh or not. You are his mother, and I for one applaud you. I am proud you chose me for his godmother.” Tears burned Mickey’s eyes as she kissed Yvette on both cheeks.
Across the meadow and to their left, a long, low whistle echoed across the fields. Instantly they were alert. In the next few moments they waited, hushed and expectant, but nothing further happened to alarm them. The night became quiet again with only the familiar sounds of summer filling the warm evening. Soon it would be totally dark and they would move from their hiding place. Mickey looked up at the sky, hoping for the clouds to move in from the west, but they did not. The light of the quarter moon was bright and silvery, ribboning through the tall grasses like brilliant threads.
The boy had been watching the women without their knowledge. They thought he was asleep, and he allowed them to think so, hoping to catch a few of their whispered words. But they spoke too softly for him to hear. Although he wanted to view himself as his mother and godmother’s protector, in reality he knew they were protecting him. He should be in the army fighting the damn Germans. Someday his heart would burst at the knowledge that he was a disloyal Frenchman.
Every day for the past year, from the moment France fell to the Germans, he had grieved for his old life. It had made him want to lash out at something, anything, to rid himself of the anger that was flooding through him—anger that had been simmering within him from the moment Paris was confiscated by the Germans. Never would he forget the sound of the hammer securing the filthy sign to their neighbors’ doors. When the Germans were two doors away, they’d slipped out the back door, and with the help of friends his mother had secured forged travel warrants to aid them in traveling south to the château where he was born.
It happened so quickly, there’d been virtually no warning, and suddenly Paris was overrun—a conquered city. Overnight hundreds of huge swastikas blazed from buildings. Food disappeared from the markets to feed the German Army, and gasoline vanished as if by magic, commandeered for the German war machine. His mother had looked so helpless at first, and then anger had set in, and for weeks now he hadn’t seen the shadow of a smile on her face. Thank God for the timely visit a few months before of Yvette and Henri…. He would not, could not, think about the last time he had seen Henri…not now…perhaps not ever.
Thoughtfully he fingered his student enrollment card in his pocket. It was the only document his mother allowed him to carry. It said he was French, Philippe Bouchet. When he’d told her he wanted to stay and fight the filthy Boche as any good Frenchman, she had refused even to discuss it. “That is the very last thing you will ever do,” she had said with staunch determination. But he was sure it was not because she was being over-protective—she had told him too many stories with pride of the bravery of his father and uncle Daniel and how they had fought in the Great War and been injured. They hadn’t balked or turned tail and run; they’d been boys much like himself when they went to war, and they had survived. And Yvette was not the only one to tell him of his mother’s seemingly boundless generosity and energy during that war. No, it was something else. Perhaps his mother had some plan other than the agreed-upon one that they would head for Spain via Marseilles.
Now Tante Yvette and his mother were always whispering together, sharing secrets that left him feeling cheated. Why wouldn’t they take him into their confidence? He was twenty years old, for God’s sake! He couldn’t understand his mother’s relentless determination to return to Marseilles, but when he had insisted upon knowing, she had answered him in a voice she’d used only in times of crisis—a voice that warned and convinced at the same time. “It is for your own safety, Philippe,” she had stated. “Soon enough you will be told, and now not another word!”
His thoughts grew dark and angry. Why wasn’t his father here helping them to safety? Because he was in America making films and money, so much money that it made Philippe sick. Recently he’d learned that except for their American holdings, they were virtually paupers. The Banque de Paris, where his mother had been doing business since before he was born, had informed them that the Germans had helped themselves thoroughly. And now most of his mother’s jewelry was gone, used for bribes, food, and shelter.
Slowly his anger intensified, overpowering whatever tender feelings he felt for the American father he had never seen. His mother, his aunt, and he were running for their lives like hunted criminals while his father was free and safe and unconcerned. Such diabolical unfairness almost stopped his breathing. Now he was beginning to see things in a light other than the rosy ideal his mother had consistently offered throughout his life. Lifelong promises that when he finished his education he would go to America vanished from his mind. Surviving was more important at the moment—surviving and preserving a particular way of life, hanging on to the things that he was familiar with, things that made him feel as though he belonged. The loss of his personal possessions, his education, his home. The possibility that he would never walk down the Champs-Élysées nor see the Étoile. That they might become only bittersweet memories—as had the Sorbonne and the sidewalk cafés he’d frequented with his school chums—was too painful to contemplate. Avenue Foch was now home to the Gestapo and the SS. The clatter and specter of goose-stepping troops and armored tanks rattled ominously through his brain. All information pointed to one distinct, terrifying reality: The Germans had the upper hand. Filthy Boches! They would rot in hell if he had anything to do with it. Tears of frustration gathered in Philippe’s eyes, and he wiped at them with the sleeve of his cotton shirt. His life as he knew it was over. What lay in store for him? All he knew was that he was terrified—not for himself so much as for his mother and his aunt Yvette. But if a decision had to be made, he would die for his mother. Of that he was sure.
Philippe jerked to sudden awareness as the cloud cover his mother prayed for suddenly slid across the bright quarter moon. As one they surged to their feet, moving silently through the tall grass toward the edge of the road. Another kilometer or two and they would be in the village where, hopefully, there would be food and water. His stomach growled rebelliously, a reminder that he had had no food for three days except for what they’d been able to forage